


Red

by Wildwind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildwind/pseuds/Wildwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr opened the door to his chambers, and saw red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

Petyr opened the door to his chambers, and saw red.

 

It was a mask. The woman's hair had been tinted; distorted with dyes. The colour was too vivid; a shade meant to remind men of fire, of the flaming passion that awaited them. Petyr was sure it had the intended effect on the Northern guards who paid her to warm their beds on any given evening. 

 

When Petyr closed his eyes, the red he sawtook on a purer form. It was a colour lightened by days in the sun, lying by a river, picking flowers and giggling over long kept secrets. This red fell softly around young Cat’s face, complimenting her clear blue eyes and her innocent smile.

 

The woman with the fiery hair knew her trade well, quickly shedding her furs and falling to her knees, loosening his small clothes. Petyr was drunk. He had only drank large amounts of whiskey on one previous occasion and the resulting feeling was exactly as he remembered. A haze hung over his vision and his voice took on an unfamiliar tone, giving life to words and ideas that shouldn’t be shared. The sensation of lead in place of blood flowing through his veins made every movement a challenge. 

 

Petyr sank into the cold stone wall at his back, looking down at her. It almost looked as if she were praying; on her knees, hands pressed together around his cock, lips parted, ready and willing to begin her act of worship. His mouth curled into a smirk.

 

His weary eyes drew closed and he continued to sink, giving himself over to the woman’s skilled tongue. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the wall itself, the walls of Winterfell, that made the memory of Cat-those quick, unclear flashes of youthful lust-return to him. 

 

_Cat loved me too_ , he thought, even if his mind couldn't form a clear picture of her face that night. Even though Petyr never heard the words fall from her lips. He remembered red; soft copper locks floating along his chest and his thighs as Cat left a trail of shy, cautious kisses along his torso. He recalled the sensation of his heart, nearly bursting, when Cat’s mouth closed around his cock, her tongue timidly expressing what she couldn’t with words. 

 

The whore worked steadily, her movements well rehearsed, and Petyr gave in to her act. He wanted to forget the events of that evening and was succeeding. Only thoughts of Cat, revealing herself to him that night and guiding him inside her as long red strands matted the pillow beneath them. He sank further; surrendering, drowning inside of her, shouting the only words he knew. The girl, this goddess, _Cat, Oh, Cat, Yes, Cat._ His love. 

 

_Love._ Words he had used too recently rushed to the surface. “You, my love….” And Petyr saw a darker shade of red, dotted with snowflakes, walking away from him, towards Winterfell, towards her mother's empty seat.

 

He felt himself pulling back, returning reluctantly to the present. _Never again._ The idea was rooted inside of him and would not be ignored. Never again would Petyr experience the night of lust, intimacy, _of love_ , he and Cat shared. 

 

Petyr retreated from the whore’s lips. His hands reached down, threading themselves through fiery locks, gathering it together  before swiftly pulling her to her feet. The woman let out a shocked squeal that was too sharp to have been a coy act. He savoured the moment; content that someone else’s defences were falling along with his own.

 

Her lips, still wet with him, leaned in to his, but Petyr went to her neck, roughly kissing and taking her pale flesh between his teeth.

 

“On the bed” he commanded, his own voice, _Lord Baelish_ ’s voice, returning to him. He took a firm hold of her hips, turning her away from him. “Hands and a knees” he rasped into her ears. The woman bent over, goosebumps racing along her pale skin, her face hidden under the mass of red hair.

 

Lord Baelish slid inside her, relishing the shift in position and the return of being in control. The feeling of her body at his command, moving only when and where he allowed her to was enough to bury the memory of Cat again. New ideas and plans were already rising in it’s place.

 

Long red curls writhed across the woman’s back, moving in time his thrusts. A new image in Petyr's head, that girl in the snow, no longer walked away. She was there with him now, bent over as this woman was, filling the air with heavy breath and thankful sighs.

 

Petyr ran hands along her hips, quickening his pace. It would take patience to wait for Sansa’s mask to fall. For her to fully experience the dissatisfaction of living in Jon Snow’s shadow. Petyr could wait, he _would_ wait. Keeping a silent watch over her, signaling to her if and when his guidance was required. She was an intelligent girl, even more than her mother. She would master the ways of ruling, of gaining and keeping power. Petyr knew Sansa could put it together, as long as he provided her with the right pieces. 

 

That thought was enough to lead him to his peak. He pulled away from the woman, release washing over him like a wave, tainting her ivory skin. Petyr knelt over her, sweat falling into eyes, filling his view with a cloud of red. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wondered how Petyr felt after the events of ep610 and whether he ever has weaker moments when it comes to keeping his erhm...sexual needs in check, so I wrote a thing.


End file.
